Second Wind
by croOKed-aura
Summary: Oliver Wood's life has always been lavish and exciting. However, when death hits him, a friendly ghost helps him gain back those he loves, and to become a good person, on and off the pitch! KB/OW! REVIEW!
1. The Ghost of Fred Weasley

**A/N:** I'M BACK! i don't know why, but i felt this sudden rush to write this story. yet another kb/ow, i hope you guys enjoy it!

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It was a terrible ending to the career of Oliver Wood. As one of Britain's most prized players, it was indeed the lowest of blows to the hearts of all quidditch fans around the country to see their beloved hero fall the most unpleasant fall. Not only was it unpleasant, but quite disturbing as well.

It was jinxed. Outraged screams were heard for miles on as the crowd saw Oliver plummet to what could possibly be his death. It was jinxed. Confunded. Anything, anything but the fault of their Keeper. It was impossible. How could such an excellent flier suddenly fall? Not even while launchinghimself off the broom to catch the quaffle did Oliver Wood literally fall. Always, miraculously, he would end up back onto the hind of the broom. The strange event was that his broom had been toyed. He would usually come up from a dive, quaffle in hand, waving to the crowd.

Therefore the only logical explanation to this event was that his broom had been toyed with. Anything - _anything_, but the fault of their Keeper had upended the brilliant Oliver Wood.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

White. All around him was white. And not just the white of the peeling paint off your wall. This white was different. It was beyond white. It was white so hot that it looked black. Or yellow. Either one, it made his eyes hurt. Like a fucking demon spat onto his irises and caused his brain to erupt in a shower of mess behind them.

And what the hell is that noise, he though. But as he calmed down and listened carefully, he came to the realization that it wasn't noise. It wasn't noise at all. Instead, it was the most deadliest of quiets he had ever experienced in his lifetime. So silent he could feel the ringing in his ears. His ear drums would definitely fall off in a matter of seconds.

But was that even possible?

Groggy, he thought. And hungry. Super hungry. Hippogriff-munching, skrewt-chewing hungry.

Where the hell was he anyway? He wandered ever more into the unending vastnass. Usually, wandering would lead you to a final destination. In this case, there was no destination as the entirety of the place was hot white. Couldn't even get anything to chew on.

But in the distace, he spotted something square. Closer, he discovered it was cube-like. And as he walked een closer, he saw a canopy bed.

Not food. But sleep is good, still... Right?

He reached the bed. He sat on it, and bent down to take off his shoes. He had no shoes. Holy shit, where the heck _was_ he?

Only when he looked down he was stark naked.

Now folks, Oliver Wood was a _talented_ man. He was a _charismatic_ man. He was a young man, and a particularly _handsome_ man. He was gifted in quidditch,_ the_ wizarding sport. He could decipher runes quicker than the average witch or wizard. He was also _very_ well gifted in his southern regions. And he also knew _how_ to use his precious gems; he had proof of _that_.

So why was it that when he saw that he was naked, he felt extremely embarassed? Nobody was around him, that was for sure. He was completely naked and completely alone, and still he felt the desire to be quickly covered in something. Even a fucking tea cosy would do.

"Perhaps you could try the bed sheets, you fucking idiot."

The voice jeepered him beyond belief. He heard himself squeal like a six year old lass, and turned a deeper shade of red.

But more than anything, he was jeepered not by embarassment, but by sheer fear at the moment. Who was that? Why would they label him as a fucking idiot without even meeting him? What the hell _is_ this!

"The _sheets_, captain. The damn sheets. Cover yourself with them before you injure yourself from all that prancing!"

It was then he realized that he was indeed prancing. Trying to hide his own figure from the creepy voice. He suddenly felt like he was watched. Actually, he was sure he was being watched. How else would a voice have come to him and suggested the sheets? Oh yeah, the sheets!

He wrapped himself until he deemed himself as fairly decent. If he could be decent, being rolled in silk sheets. The cooling, soft texture of the sheets did nothing for his shyness and embarassment by feeling good on his penis, either. It was a nice feeling. But just a feeling that should be saved for later. When _alone_.

"Glad to welcome you to heaven, mate," the voice said, and Oliver Wood felt an unmistakeable slap on the back. This time, he didn't care who heard it, but he shrieked like his mother.

He turned to his right, where the slap came from. No one was there. He looked to his left. Once again, nobody appeared. It was spooky, he was cold, scared, and worst of all, he felt a fucking boner creeping up on him from the stupid silk sheets.

"Need some private time there for some yanking, sir?"

This time, Oliver Wood looked up quickly. He had pretty good reflexes. But it wasn't necessary to almost snap his neck for a glance at the person grinning in front of him. Grinning a shit-eating grin.

The figure went from transluscent to semi-transparent. He was tall, as tall as himself. And it was then that Oliver Wood realized that this was the face of a young man he hadn't spoken to in quite some years. Very many long years. Hadn't seen, and hadn't spoken to, since he was 17. It was the face of a missing pair of shoes, except this one he knew for sure was dead. Because he mourned him too.

"F-f-f-_Fred_!" Oliver Wood exclaimed, taken aback, and stumbling backwards too. Conveniently on the bed. "Holy mother of mothers, is that really you?"

He could see the figure in front of him roll his eyes pointedly. "Of course you dimwit. Who else would it be?"

Is he seriously asking me this question, Oliver though. He didn't want to answer. Didn't want to feel bad by saying he never expected to see Fred Weasley, because he was dead.

"Of course I'm dead," Fred said, once more rolling his eyes. "I've been dead for twelve human years at present. And so are you, apparently."

Now_ that _was a joke.

"I'm not joking. I wouldn't joke about dying. Other things I would, yes, but definitely not dying."

From the bed, Oliver Wood peered up at the ghost of Fred Weasley.

And then he felt a slap to his right cheek. "I'm not a fucking _ghost_! If I was, then we wouldn't be here! God, I'm not dumb enough to stay behind. I'd much rather enjoy the view from up here!"

Rubbing his cheek with confusion, Oliver asked, "Well, if you aren't a ghost, then what exactly are you, dare I ask?" And can he really read my mind?

"Sure can," replied Fred, smirking. "I can read exactly what's going on in your mind right now. You think I've been creeping you, you're self conscious about your body, which you shouldn't be since you're like an Adonis if you don't mind me saying - don't read too deeply into that comment please - and you don't know what to do about your throbbing erection."

Ignoring the last comment completely, Oliver asked again, "So what_ are _you?"

He heard Fred make an irritated clicking noise. "Obviously, I'm an angel. What else would I be?"

The devil's advocate, perhaps.

"I heard that," Fred said poisonously, but didn't seem too phased. "I'm an angel sent from heaven."

"To guide me or something?" Oliver questioned. It didn't make sense. Fred was wearing a perfectly decent robe while he was still wrapped half assed in silk sheets. Or in what he thought were silk sheets at least.

"Yea, to guide you. In a way." Fred said this thoughtfully, and at once Oliver Wood knew that the ghost of Fred Weasley had a purpose. He didn't know what this purpose was. But if he remembered correctly, Fred Weasley didn't have good ideas much in school.

"I'm a guide for you, Oliver Wood. Sort of like a guardian angel, y'know?"

"No, not really," Oliver answered, looking suspiciously at the ghost.

"Okay well, not a guardian angel. But something like it."

"Guiding and guarding me from what?"

"Hell."

Hell. There was a heaven, and now there was a hell. And apparently, he was on his way to Hades. So what brings him to heaven?

"Not in heaven," said a rather thick voice. He looked beside him to see the ghost consuming an edible object. "And for fuck's sake, stop referring to me as a ghost, I'm an _angel_! Damnit, Wood!" The ghost - angel - took a break to sip a cup which appeared out of nowhere. "Not heaven," he said again, "but limbo. Ever heard of limbo, smartass?"

"Yes," Oliver replied, but still confused. _Limbo_?

"Yes, limbo! Should you ascend, or should you descend? You were actually suppossed to descend._ I_ vouched for you."

Oliver Wood felt touched. Of all people to vouch for him in heaven, least of all would he ever expect Fred Weasley.

"Don't get all warm and fuzzy. I did it because I knew that despite your recent misdeeds, you deserved a second chance. Or a second wind."

"Second _wind_?"

"Yeah. Second wind. It's like a second chance, except with a second wind, you get to - "

"Have my own say?" Oliver Wood interrupted. Fred glared at him. He now wished he hadn't.

"You get the chance to relive your life. From where it stopped, of course. As in, the moment your face splattered on the ground and shattered into a million pieces. You'll live from there and then - "

"I fell off the fucking broom?" Oliver asked, outraged.

" - we'll see how you're doing and if you're being good you'll go to heaven. If not, you'll go to hell. Either way, you'll be going somewhere. Cool?"

"How did I die?" Oliver demanded, seeimingly to have not heard the last bit of Fred's explanation.

Fred gave him a quizzical look. "You really want to know?"

"Of course, it's my own death, I want to have a share in it!"

Fred raised an eyebrow, and for a few minutes remained where he was, staring at Oliver. Oliver Wood, though very used to being in the spotlight, could not stand to have the ghost -

"_Angel_!" Fred said through gritted teeth.

- angel, couldn't stand the angel looking at him. It was weird.

"Here, I'll show you."

And immediately, a pool emerged from the white. Though, pools were suppossed to be on the ground, this pool spread right in front of them, with the scene of a quidditch game. Oliver Wood recognized the scene; Puddlemere United against the Chudley Cannons for the spot in the final four.

He was confident during that game. Some would argue too confident, not only for that game, but for the most recent years of his past life. But he was confident. The Chudley Cannons basically sucked. They wouldn't stand a chance.

That was when the view zoomed into one of the Cannons beaters, Henry White. He watched as Henry, pulling back his arm, glaring at Oliver in the pool, and swinging that bat with immense hatred. And he saw himself in the pool, oblivious to his soon-to-be deadly injury. And as the bludger collided with the back of skull, even the present Oliver Wood looked highly disgusted.

"Did you see your eyeballs pop out of their sockets?" Fred asked, evidently excited by the events. "Brilliant! Absolutely _brilliant_! Couldn't have performed better myself, speaking as an amazing past beater."

Oliver was outraged. "So that's how I bit the dust?" He looked derranged. Like a mad man. "I got hit by a bloody bludger? _Nobody_ dies - "

"On the contrary," Fred started, but was cut off.

"Nobody fucking dies from a bludger! I'm weak! When was I so weak? And now in death, I'm still stuck in a fucking state of limbo?" He gave Fred an incredulous look, which was answered by a nod.

"The main concern is to get you out of limbo, not to discuss your death. I don't

care for it," Fred said off handedly. "So I'm here to help."

Oliver Wood was confused. How on earth -

"You're not on earth," said Fred.

- would a ghost -

"Or for Merlin's sake, I told you, _I'm an angel_! Geez!"

- help him without a physical form? How is this even real?

"I'll tell the big guy to descend you into hell if you want me to."

He was defeated. For the first time - or should he say, second time seeing as he was dead? - that he felt completely defeated. "How are you goling to help me, Fred?"

He heard a _tsk_ sound. "I already told you I'm your guardian angel. The first step is acceptance!"

"Okay, and how is that going to get me out of limbo? And what did you mean by a second shot at life?"

"It means what it means. You get another chance to live."

"Like reincarnation?"

"Please. You'll return to your life and make amends."

Amends. Amends for _what_?

"For being a pompous jackass to your loved ones, obviously," Fred said, once more rolling his eyes like it was the most obvious thing.

"So by living life, _how_ would you help if I'm not going to be here?"

"You know, Wood, my patience for you is seriously hanging on a thread. I _told_ you, I'm your guardian angel!"

"And what does that entail, dare I ask?"

"_Visitations_."

"What the hell does that mean?" Oliver asked, unsure. If being visited by Fred Weasley was as irritating as it was now, he doubted it would be a picnic otherwise.

"Visitations. I'll visit you. Whenever you need me, just say my name. Whenever I feel like visting, I'll appear. Don't worry, nobody can see me, so if you start talking to me, I won't be there. People might think you're crazy if I make a physical appearance to them as well."

"Wouldn't it make _more_ sense to have others see you so they don't think I'm an idiot?"

"That is not my concern."

Oliver Wood wrinkled his brow. "I thought I _was_ your concern!"

"Yeah, but not really. Anyway, I'm giving you your first and only assignment."

First and only? He said amends, Oliver thought. Amends, not _amend_.

"Just stop thinking and listen, will you?" Fred demanded, clearly annoyed now. "Your assignment after you're going back is to say you're sorry to your most beloved and gain her forgiveness, as well as her friendship."

"_Who_? - " he began asking, but Fred ignored him.

"You'll be judged on how well you do, and to what degree your aplogy and friendship takes."

It shouldnt' be too hard. Saying sorry was never a big deal -

"Yeah, don't forget, you're not exactly popular you know," Fred said all knowingly.

Fred was crazy. Everybody loved him. He wasn't a quidditch hero without a reason.

"Yeah, people like you as a player. Not as an _individual_."

_Girls_ did -

"That's not your target. Your target is someone else."

"But you said the person was a her. Meaning she's a _girl_. _Girls_ like me."

Fred made a noise of disbelief. "Just you wait til I show you who she is."

And once more, another pool came into view. Unlike the first one, this started off blurry. "Let's see if you remember her, hmm?" Fred suggested.

The picture grew slightly clearer. Rather than fuzz, he could now make out a head, neck, shoulders, and a bit of breast. Or what looked like breasts. She had dark hair. Many girls did. But this one had hair as dark as a raven. Skin was very peachy. The vision became clearer. Dark eyes which almost turned black in certain lights. A small nose and a full mouth. She looked really appealing; even her breasts were starting to form - _fucking erection_!

And then the picture cleared. And Fred was right. She was _not_ just any girl. It took him a while to remember the exact details, but after he remembered, he sincerely wished he didn't. She was going to hate him, no doubt. If he were her, he would hate himself too. But everything was done for the greater good.

Still. Of all people to apologize to and gain confidences again, did it really have to be her? He'd rather go to hell -

"Hey, if you wanted to go to hell, you could've jsut said so," Fred said, shrugging his shoulders.

"_No I take it back_!" exclaimed Oliver quickly. "Do I have to talk to her?"

"No. You could go to hell though."

"Are you serious?"

"As serious as death could be."

He didn't want to. He was scared. Why shouldn't he be? A woman scorned was never a happy sight.

"Is it just this one task?" Oliver asked, doubtfully.

Fred smiled toothily at him. "All you have to do is gain her friendship back. She was, according to your records, the one you hurt the most!"

He bit his tongue. Should he? Shouldn't he? "Fine," he replied with gritted teeth. "Fine. But what happens after?"

"We, you'll be judged, and if you do good, you'll go to heaven," he said, with the tone of simplicity.

"And if I do horribly?"

At this, Fred looked doutful and stroked his chin. "Well, there's the chance they might not be satisfied and will ask you to do it again. Or most likely, you'll go down."

But before Oliver could contemplate it, he felt Fred's voice echo, and saw that the figure was slowly diminshed into nothingness.

"Good luck, Wood! I'm short on time, I promised my great grandfather a visit! If you need anything, just call!"

Or he'll just come, Oliver thought grudgingly, as he felt himself diminishing as well, but quickly into nothing ness -

He felt his body slam not once, but twice. And then he could feel no more.

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A/N: yes, i'm back. i know i know. i said i most likely wouldn't be. but after re-reading all the 7 harry potters, i just wanted to make a story. HOWEVER - no promises it'll be finished, but it should be, by the end of this summer **hopefully**!!!!

this is yet another oliver/katie story. i seem to have a liking for this pairing. not too popular, but popular enough. i don't expect this story will garner as many readers as the first story i published regarding them, but hopefully i'll be somewhat successful and still get some reviews. i assume my writing's all rocky at the moment.

the first chapter is done in third person. just so you know for the future chapters, it'll be done in oliver's p.o.v. a switch from katie. time to see what boys think about.

rated a bit more heavily due to some more swearing and probably sexual content. not r-rated or anything, but be warned! hahahaahhaha.

enjoy, and _please please please** REVIEW!!!**_


	2. The First Step to Apologizing

**a/n:** i've changed my mind. this story will not be in first person pov, but third person. i think it's more fitting for this narrative. my apologies and other things at the end, so enjoy!

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_He had a dream._

_And it was a particularly weird dream. He remembered this dream, because he dreamt it before. But why now? It's been too long already._

_He sat with her on an old porch, in a little country cottage. The exact same country cottage she had dwelled in when he had last seen her. He had his arms around her, as she nuzzled his neck. It was the picture of utter bliss. He watched his twenty-three year old self mouth the words, "I love you", and saw the sweet face of his lover repeat them for his ears alone. He was happy, but at the moment, he could hardly remember it._

_He hadn't spoken to her in eight years. He hadn't heard from her in eight years. In fact, he could honestly say he barely thought of her for eight years._

_This dream had a hidden message._

"I'm trying to jolt your memory, you idiot log."

That_ voice he remembered quite distinctly._

"Don't worry, this is a dream. I am now about to disappear from your dream."

_Thank god._

"And when you wake up, I'm going to be right in front of your face. So you better not squeal like a piglet and scare off all the Healers. Remember, _I will be right in front of your face_. It will _not_ be a hallucination."

_Seeing a ghost in reality might as well be a hallucination._

"On the count of three, you will wake up in a hospital bed. Do not be alarmed. One..."

_Hospital bed?_

"And ah-two..."

_What on earth am I even doing in a hospital?_

"Three!"

* * *

It was as if his body suffered multiple slams onto the ground. How could he have ached so much? The throbbing pain kept his head in tumbles; his back hurt, his bones felt numb, and he wasn't so sure whether or not he could lift his limbs.

"_Ahoy there, mate!"_ A voice came into his hearing, sounding close yet distant all the same. He wasn't sure if he actually heard it, or if it just plainly came from his mind.

"I'd say it's in your mind," the voice said, as it grew louder. He couldn't take the pain – it made his head hurt even worse. "Although I don't really think that's a good thing, hearing voices in your head. Makes people think you're a bit loopy."

Oliver Wood fought to open his eyes, and was immediately blinded by the intense white of the room. _Hospital_, he thought. _I'm in the hospital – Fred Weasley said I would wake up in the hospital._

Sitting up straighter, he fought the stabs of pain in his body. "What happened?" he asked out loud, to nobody in particular. Or perhaps, he said it to the ghost.

"_Angel,_" the voice said. The ghost of Fred Weasley had suddenly appeared by his right side, translucent. Was that even _normal?_ "Clearly _not_ normal, Keeper. I'm not technically real, if you think about it."

It was true. Maybe it was a hallucination –

"Not a hallucination. I told you, I'm your guardian angel, here to guide you to making amends."

"Amends with whom?" Oliver asked, confused. He tried to think, but the pain couldn't be more distracting. It was in the back of his mind. It was familiar, to be back here for a reason. _Back on earth on a mission_. But what could that mission possibly be?

"I told you, you're here to apologize to the one you hurt the most!" Fred exclaimed, sounding frustrated. "Look, I know you play quidditch for a living, and you've literally just received a bludger to the head that killed you – but _honestly_, are you really that thick?"

Oliver's brows furrowed. If there was one thing that bothered him, it was that people assumed he wasn't very bright. In this case, it wasn't a person accusing him of it, but a ghost. But still, it _did_ hurt. He performed quite well during his education. Just because he played a sport professionally, and just because he did get hit in the head many times by something like a cannonball, it didn't necessarily mean he was stupid!

"I'm not thick," he cried, glaring at Fred. "Do you really expect me to get my head straight if it hurts so much?"

The ghost rolled his eyes at him. "Poor little baby butterfly. _Give me a break, Wood. _Think carefully. I sent you a vision of her not so long ago."

A few minutes of deep thinking finally got Oliver to his senses. The strange pool that came from nowhere in a place of limbo – and that dream! All of it, all of it was her. She was the reason why he was sent back.

"Um, Fred, I have a question for you." Oliver bit his lip, unsure whether or not what he was about to ask would make him sound stupid. "You know how you said I'm here on a... second wind?"

The ghost looked at him expectantly and didn't answer. The Keeper continued on; "I was just wondering, and I know this sounds a bit ridiculous. But if I've already died, and I'm sent back here... er, what does that make me? Dead or alive?"

Fred's brows furrowed this time. It seemed as if the ghost wasn't so sure himself. "Well, you _are_ technically alive at the moment," he answered, seeming a tad doubtful.

"So what happens afterwards?"

Fred gave him a stare, as if the answer was blatantly obvious. "Well, after your task is complete, you die, of course!"

The news came to shock Oliver. _How on earth?_ He realized that he had already died, but he figured that with a second shot at life, he would continue living on, until the next time death came for him. _But to suddenly drop down dead? _How would he explain that to his friends and family? He would be here temporarily, and then disappear and die, because he had already done so and that was his true death?

And wouldn't it be kinda weird, to apologize to someone, get back into her good graces, and then leave again? Of course, death would be the reason to leave her the second time, but it all seemed very strange.

"Hey, if you've got questions or concerns, take it up with the big guy when you get up there again," Fred said, taking him out of his thoughts. "He might grant you an appeal. But considering how this is already your second chance, I'm pretty sure your next opportunity isn't there."

_Great. Just fucking great. I get to live again, and then die quickly. This is a _weird_ mission._

"Well, like it or not, you're going to complete it because I vouched for you. So come on, let's hear the plan!"

_Plan?_ "Plan?" Oliver asked, "_What_ plan?"

"The plan to apologize to her. Let's hear it then!"

"I just woke up from death, and you expect me to already have a plan?"

The ghost rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Now come on, genius, tell me the plan."

"Do _you_ have a plan?" Oliver asked, hopeful. If anyone was to make a scheme, it would be Fred Weasley.

"Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you, because that would be cheating. Come on, Oliver. _Think!_ You know you can't cheat to get into heaven, even _I_ knew that!"

_Damn it, Weasley. I hate it when he's right._ But what kind of plan was he supposed to think up of? And how could he even do it?

"The first step to apologizing is figuring out what you did wrong," Fred said, exasperatedly. "I'm quite sure you know what you did wrong."

Oliver gave the ghost a sneer, and flopped back onto the pillows. If there was one break-up he never liked to think about, it was definitely this one.

He had been told by friends – or he should say, _old_ friends now – that it was really his fault. He never saw it that way. He saw it as a mutual parting, which was why he didn't understand his whole second wind. Why would he be sent back to apologize for something that didn't seem so terrible to him? And how could she have been the one he hurt the most?

"Geez, Wood, are you serious?" The ghost was looming over him, clearly at the point of irritation now. "Do you really need me to refresh your memory?"

"Yes, please," Oliver said, a bit irritated himself. He didn't understand, perhaps the ghost could help him.

He heard the ghost mutter something, but couldn't make it out. Just as well, he thought. The less I hear from him the –

Everything cut off unexpectantly. A black veil covered his surroundings completely, contrasting with what was purely white only seconds ago. _What on earth – _

It was as if a large screen played in front of him. A vision of a woman – the same woman, and him, once again, on the country cottage porch, from his dream. He still looked twenty-three, or perhaps he was twenty-four. He could only judge that she was at most twenty-one here. He peered at her face, realizing it held complex emotions such as fear, anger, and intense pain. He looked at his younger self, whose emotions differed very much compared to the girl. Whereas she seemed in a place beyond hurt, he looked almost indifferent. _Was that a good thing?_

"No, it's not a good thing, but please, continue watching carefully." He ghost came up beside him, arms crossed, not looking at him. Oliver's head turned back onto the screen.

The younger Oliver Wood spoke audibly now, a tone quite harsh that it even surprised the Keeper who watched. _"Did you really expect us to still be, Katie? You know that can't possibly happen any longer – look at where our lives are!"_

"_But you said we would – "_

"_It doesn't matter anymore. Can't you see? We don't fit with each other anymore! We're too _different_ now..."_

"_But we do,"_ the woman cried, trying to grasp his arm. The younger Oliver pulled away quickly, glaring at her. She held herself, wrapping her arms about her body. _"But we do! It doesn't matter what your career is, I'll always be there, Oliver! I will!"_

The young man scoffed at her. _"I'll be far too busy by then, my dear. I can't keep up a professional career and still be with you. You know how important Quidditch is for me. But now that I'm on the First Team, I just can't sacrifice any more time!"_

The girl stared at him, her mouth open. It took her several tries before she managed to speak. _"Ever since they promoted you to First Team, you have been nothing but horrible to me, Oliver Wood. And I have been there for you every day – "_

"_Quite irritating, personally."_

"_And this is how you treat me? Why are you being like this? You used to be so – "_

"_That's exactly my point!"_ The man shouted now, rage streaming in his eyes. _"I used to be, and you used to be. That was _then;_ we can't go on now, Katie! Understand that, please!"_

The present Oliver Wood was taken aback. As he recalled, the conversation did not seem to be this intense, nor did it seem this terrible.

What about that dream? He remembered it now, replaying it in his head, ignoring the fighting words that emitted from the screen. He wanted to block that out momentarily. He wanted to remember the dream.

It was the same porch. It was the same woman. She was beautiful, with her shiny black hair falling in tumbles past her shoulders. She had the strangest and perkiest personality that made him smile each time he saw her. But the image of her on the screen showed only a girl who shrunk into herself.

Did he really cause that? _No – think of the dream._

_The dream._ He remembered telling her he loved her. He remembered in the dream she said it back. He wondered if it really did happen in real life, when he was twenty-three. Jogging his memory, he realized that it _did _happen. The dream held real events, true to the bone. And now he remembered the look of her when he first said those three words. And when she replied, he remembered the joyous feeling of being lifted off the air without a broom.

He yanked away from his thoughts and concentrated on the screen. He saw himself walking away from her, and away from the cottage and its porch. His eyes lingered on the woman, who knelt on the floor, with her face in her hands. He saw her shoulders hunch weakly as they shook with silent sobs. And he saw the last glimpse of his old self, hardened, determined, and definitely _not_ sorry.

Before he could catch another look of the girl, he was back in his hospital room. Fred Weasley sat on his legs, though he didn't feel it. What he did feel, on the other hand, was deep sorrow for the pain he caused her, and shame, for how indifferent he was to the entire situation.

Now he understood.

"Good," replied the ghost, looking satisfied. "Now that you know what happened correctly, we can think of a plan."

A plan to apologize would be the furthest thing from his mind. How could he possibly face her now, knowing that he made a wonderful person feel so... shitty?

He couldn't help himself. Now that he finally got back to remembering her, the memories of her came flooding back. He remembered the first time he kissed her, on the quidditch training grounds in Hogwarts, after practice when the team left for the change rooms. He could still feel the softness of her mouth on his. If he concentrated, he could still see the shy eyes that sparkled at him.

And he remembered when he was accepted into Puddlemere United, and how ecstatic she was for him, despite the fact that he had to leave the familiarity of school while she stayed. He remembered her encouragement and her unwavering support for him. He felt comforted, knowing that he could always come home each night, into the warm and loving embrace of her arms.

And now that he remembered these thoughts, Oliver Wood realized how lonely he had been. Sure, he had had many other suitors afterwards. He was famous; he could get any witch he could have wanted. But now that he thought of it, none of those women ever filled that void he ignored. None made him as happy as she made him. And none were as willing to always be there like she was. And of those who did, he didn't want.

Deep down inside, even though he ended it, he now knew that he wanted her. She would fill the empty feeling in his gut, and she would make him grounded.

He looked guiltily at the ghost, still upon his feet. "Fred?"

"What is it, Wood?"

"Perhaps I'll think of a plan tomorrow. I'm too exhausted right now."

Fred Weasley looked at him while remaining silent. The ghost sighed, and nodded. "Tomorrow, then. But you _better_ have a plan when I come for you. And I'm being _serious_ for once!"

A plan indeed, he would have. But right now, the Keeper wished only to be alone with his thoughts. He knew the ghost understood, since after all, the ghost could read his mind. He rubbed his eyes. "Thanks, Fred." Looking around, Oliver saw that he was alone. The ghost had left.

And as much as he wanted to be left alone, Oliver had never felt so incredibly lonely in his thirty-one years of life until now.

* * *

**a/n:** I KNOW!!! it's been such a long delay. in fact, it's almost been half a year, but not really. ok anyway. first off, apologies.

sorry folks! i just didn't know how to continue when i wasn't exactly into fanfiction back in the summer. i was, for a couple of days, but then that kinda wavered. i'm back now, with new stories, though not for hp. i think i'll be continuing on with this one.

however, i'm not making any more promises this time. i'm not going to giv myself a set date to complete this. chances are, the next chapter ill ne the next month, since it's christmas. and i know, i've lsot viewership for this, but hopefully, you guys can forgive me. please? i've finally gotten my drive back for this story, and since it's kbow, i cannot abandon it. there aren't enough of these out there to begin with!

i now now which direction i'm headed with this story. it won't be as long as a look to the left, mainly ebcause i don't have enough time for that. and remember, a look to the left started back in 2005, and got finished only recently. i don't want to prolong this one. i just want to bust it out.

chapters won't be as long as a look to the left either, but i'm hoping that you guys will still enjoy it. it's starting off slowly, but only because i want some of oliver and katie's history to be understood before it gets to the good stuff. cool?

anyway, thanks for staying loyal to all of you who are, and for the new readers, thanks for reading!

**REVIEW!!** I NEED THE MOTIVATION FROM YOU GUYS!


	3. Confrontation

"Here goes nothing."

He took a deep breath. And then another one. And another one after that.

"For fuck's sake, do you need me to pick the panties out of your ass, Wood? We've been standing here for over five minutes!"

Oliver glared at the ghost. These things needed time, they couldn't be rushed. Sweat dampened his palms, as he tried rubbing them on his pants. He could do this.

He heaved a sigh. "She's going to hate me, Fred."

The ghost clicked his tongue. "It's not like she doesn't already."

He bit back a retort, and said instead, "What if she won't listen to me?"

"That's a very likely possibility," Fred said, nodding his head. "She probably will."

"But it's been eight years, she might've forgotten..."

He heard Fred guffaw. "Oh please, Oliver. _Who_ would forget the most dreadful break-up that's ever happened to them?"

In the past eight years, he realized he had changed dramatically. Although he had always been a tad eccentric when it came to quidditch, he also knew that his younger self acted different. Much differently compared to his present self. He was more self-centered, more arrogant, and neglected to think of others too much.

But perhaps in the last eight years, she would've changed too. Time did seem to heal old wounds for most people he knew, and maybe the time spent apart would have made her realize why he broke up with her. Perhaps now, she might even have a small hearty laugh with him, and forgive him. Eight years, he realized, could make a huge difference.

"You're not getting any younger standing on this porch, Wood."

Fred was right. It was time to man up. He took a huge breath, and before he could chicken out again, he raised his fist and knocked three times on the door – no longer white, but now painted a bright yellow, something he just came to remember from the past – and stood back patiently.

He waited. Fred waited. They both waited, yet no noise came from behind the door.

"Should I try – " Oliver started.

"_Obviously_!" Fred exclaimed, rolling his eyes.

"Are we even sure she still lives here?" Oliver asked, a small doubt forming in his head.

"Are _we_ sure? I don't know about you, Wood, but I know for a fact that _I'm_ unsure, since I haven't been living for quite a few years."

"Well, I haven't spoken to her in eight years, either. What if she moved?"

"Stop being so frustrating and knock again! You never know unless you try!" Fred cried, fluttering around him. "Who cares if she doesn't live here? You'll figure it out; you've got a lifetime to do so!"

"Actually," Oliver said, his brows knitted together, "according to _you_, I don't have a lifetime. I have time to do this, and then the rest of my life will be cut short since I've technically already died and this is just some spare time to rearrange my life."

"Yes, yes, I _know_ that. Now will you just knock?"

Oliver knocked the door, three times once more. He stood back patiently. And again, both he and ghost waited. Before Fred could reprimand him again, he knocked for the third time.

Thinking that he would sit off to the side and wait for someone – anyone, to come home again, he started walking away from the door until he heard a strange crashing noise from within the cottage. He looked at Fred, who looked back at him with mirrored confusion. Oliver planted his feet directly in front of the door, no longer patient, but anxious, as to when that door would finally open.

He heard a few more noises. A large object tumbling down what he assumed would be a flight of stairs, a shoulder banging against a wall, slight giggling, and heavy panting, and a voice yelled, "_Coming_!"

His palms started sweating again. He nervously twiddled with his shirt, stepping from one side to the other. And finally, he saw the door start to slowly creak open.

A man appeared, looking extremely dishevelled; his hair was bunched awkwardly, as if he had rubbed his hands all over the top of his head. Oliver glanced down, noticing the man was breathing quite heavily, patches of pink blotting his heaving chest. And he also noticed that the man wore nothing, save for the giant sheet wrapped around his torso.

"Yes? Can I help you?" The man said, not really paying attention to anything except trying to rearrange the sheet wrapping around him. Oliver stole a quick glance at Fred, who was now directly beside him, and saw that the ghost had one eyebrow arched, looking somewhat horrified at the sight in front of them. Oliver looked back to the man.

"Is there something you wanted?" The man asked, now satisfied with the position of the sheet. Oliver watched as the man finally took a good look at him, rather than just stare blindly at him. He watched as the man squinted, brows together, scrutinizing him. "You look familiar..."

Oliver ignored the last comment. "Hello, I'm – "

"_Oliver Wood_!" The man exclaimed, recognition becoming apparent in his feature. "_What the hell_?"

"Yes," Oliver commented, trying not to sound too pretentious. Considering how famous he was, he was surprised at the slow reaction the man had when trying to sort out who was standing on his porch. "I'm Oliver Wood, and I would like to ask – "

"_What the hell are you doing here_?" The man demanded, clutching the sheet more tightly.

"Excuse you?" He didn't care if that comment sounded rude. The question the man asked was worse.

"Should you not be zooming around your stupid broom, and looking down on us peasants? Why are you even here?"

Oliver was frustrated. No longer did he care for being civil. This man was being an idiot. He knew full well that despite having loads of fans, there were the few buggers out there who tried to make his career a living hell.

"I could hex your head off if I wanted to," Oliver muttered, his hand reaching for his pocket.

The man snorted. "I don't know if you're aware of the fact that _I _can manage that as well, you fucking oaf. Now I've asked you this a couple of times, but I see you're just as dense as you were back in school. _What are you doing here_?"

Now he was confused. This man knew him back in _school_? He nervously looked at Fred, asking silently whether or not the ghost knew who the man was. And of course, like the tool Fred Weasley was and always had been, he chose not to answer.

"Roger?" A small voice that sounded shy came from inside the house. "Roger, is everything okay?"

The man gave him a squinty glare before turning around and replying in a much sweeter tone, "Everything's fine. It's nothing, just a dumb fuck on the porch!"

"_I'm sorry_?" The voice said, sounding louder, as Oliver heard footsteps from inside.

"Nothing, darling, he's just about to leave! No need for you to come down or anything."

The man gave Oliver the finger before slamming the door in the Keeper's face. The force of it blew dust and debris from the corners of the porch into the air.

"Whoever he is, he _clearly_ doesn't understand the concept of proper etiquette," Oliver said, turning to Fred before sighing loudly. He started making his way from the porch.

"_Are you serious_?" Fred asked, looking disbelievingly at him. "You honestly don't recognize that bloke?"

"No..." Oliver said, racking his brain. "Should I?"

Before Fred could respond, he heard the door creak open again, and the voice of a woman sounding apologetic.

"I'm so sorry about that sir. Roger isn't usually like that, honest. Is there anything we could help you with?"

Oliver felt his feet freeze. In fact, he felt his entire body freeze. Even though it was just a small, short, and simple question, he hadn't heard that voice in over eight years. It sounded just as melodic and soothing as it did eight years ago.

"_Sir_?" she asked, and he heard footsteps emerging onto the porch. "Really is there anything I can help you with?"

He couldn't turn around. He couldn't face her. If he did, she would instantly recognize him. If he did, he'd get the door slammed in his face for the second time in three minutes. And if he did, all those memories, and all those feelings, as he knew, would come flooding back.

And then he would hate himself. He would be ashamed of himself. He would never be able to live with himself, knowing that he hurt a perfectly wonderful girl, all for the sake of his career.

"I won't bite your head off, I promise." He heard a small tinkle of laughter coming from her words. He knew she was at the edge of the porch, watching him stand there like a bloody idiot.

Of course she wouldn't bite his head off. If he remembered correctly, she was always too nice to do any such thing. Even when she was angry with him, she never _yelled_ at him. And knowing how nice she was – and still probably is – at that moment, he couldn't muster up the confidence to even look at her.

"You're going to need to turn around if you want to make things right." Fred's quiet voice came from his right, a look of complete understanding in his eyes. "This whole process needs to start with _you_, Oliver."

She won't ever forgive me, Fred.

"Even if she doesn't, it wouldn't hurt to at least try. You never know, if she's as sweet as she was, you might be able to change her impression of you."

The ghost was right. Of course, the ghost was _always_ right! Dumb ghost.

"_I heard that_."

Oliver chose not to acknowledge that comment. Instead, he gathered enough confidence to slowly – _very slowly_ – turn around. And as he looked hesitatingly into her face, he heard the small, almost inaudible gasp of shock from her.

He didn't know how long they stood there, just looking at each other. She looked the same, yet different, as if she was a living memory from the past. Her hair no longer hung down in the girlish braids she was once known for, but lay loosely just below her shoulders. It was still as black as it was, and he longed to feel it, curious to know whether it was still as silky as it was once before.

She looked older, more mature, and surer of herself. Her stance held more confidence, no longer as timid as she had been. Her figure was just as flattering as it was, and he took notice of the fact that she wore nothing but an overly large t-shirt and short-shorts. He remembered her body, remembered running his fingers past her neck, collarbone, and her stomach. And with that memory, he heard in his head, the soft moans that he had managed to get out of her, and the way she clung onto his body as if the closer she held on, she would be able to keep him forever.

And all the while he stood there, memories of the past racing this way and that, he wondered if it was him she was thinking of too.

"You look different than you do on the magazines." She crossed her arms, her face going from shock to indifference. She didn't look mad at the moment. He took it as a good sign.

"So do you." It was the only response he could think of, and he felt himself cringe with embarrassment. Never in all his life could he remember feeling this nervous.

"I'm not on the magazines, Oliver. We're not _all_ famous."

He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic. But either way, the last comment stung, as if she were faulting him for being famous. Which she probably was.

He didn't know what else to say. What could he possibly say after eight years? _'Good to see you, Katie Bell, you look as ravishing as ever'_ sounded slightly inappropriate.

"So..." Oliver put his hands in his pockets, swinging back and forth on his heels. "What have you been up to?"

He felt himself redden as the question came out. Why would you ask that you fucking _idiot_!

She looked at him suspiciously, tilting her head to the side. "_Seriously_?" Before he could muster up a response, she continued. "You came all the way here after _all_ these years, _just_ to ask me what I've been up to?"

Not trusting himself with words, he feebly nodded.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Oh, well, you know, Oliver," she said, sounding snide. He didn't blame her. "Just being me. Ordinary; nothing special such as yourself. Since, _as you well know_, I'm just a normal person whereas you're _way_ out of my league."

He couldn't help but feel a bit hurt at her words. He knew he deserved her sarcasm, and probably deserved even worse, but they nonetheless made him feel even more worthless than he already was. She gave him one last look, and turned away, walking back to the porch.

"_Don't_ bother coming out in the next eight years, Wood. I'd prefer not having you ask me what I'll have been up to again, since whatever I _am_ up to will not live up to whatever it is _you're_ doing."

His fingers twisted in his pocket, and he blushed even harder this time, with more shame than he felt only seconds ago. He knew asking her what she'd been up to was a stupid question, but he was never quick on his feet in trying situations.

"_Quick_! Say something before she leaves!" Fred's urging voice sounded in his head. But what could he say that would make her stay? "Just say something, you bloody idiot! You can't make the situation worse; it's already as bad as it can get!"

That wasn't too helpful. "Wait!" Oliver cried, stepping closer to the porch. "Katie, _wait_!"

She stopped dead in her tracks. She twisted her head around to him. "_Yes_?" she said levelly.

He was at a loss for words again. He didn't know. So he asked the first question that popped into his seemingly small brain. "Who was that guy wrapped in the sheets?"

She looked at him incredulously, and turned fully towards him. "_Excuse me_?"

He repeated the question. And he waited while she glared at him.

"You actually don't know?" she asked, no longer looking angry or frustrated. Her hand went up to her head, and she scratched absent-mindedly. Who _was_ that guy that both Katie and Fred appear to be familiar with?

"Roger," Katie replied, arms folded across her chest.

"Yes, I _know_, I got that much when I heard you from inside."

"Roger _Davies_, Oliver. Roger Davies from Hogwarts! He played quidditch...?"

That name sounded familiar now. _Roger Davies_... who played quidditch. And then he remembered. He recalled the pompous attitude that came onto the pitch every time Gryffindor would play against Ravenclaw. He remembered how much he detested that Roger Davies, with his cock-shit smile, his stupid messy blonde hair, and the way he swaggered as he walked by in the halls. And most of all, he remembered wanting to smack that little smart-ass twerp every time he set eyes on him.

"_Roger Davies_?" Oliver exclaimed, stepping back and putting a hand out in the air. "What the hell are you doing, associating yourself with _Roger Davies_?"

"What the hell are you doing _here_, asking me what I've been doing for the past eight years, without warning?" she retorted, eyebrow raised.

"I _hate_ that guy!"

"And he clearly hates you too."

"Katie," Oliver said, rubbing his forehead, "as a fellow Gryffindor who was also part of the quidditch team, I'm baffled that you don't have any animosity towards that wanker!"

"If you remember clearly, I never shared your hatred for Roger. Nor for anybody," she replied.

He heard a faint rustle from inside the house, as a shadow loomed closer to the edge of the door. Both he and Katie looked towards the opening, as Roger Davies came from within.

"Still here, Wood? Take a hint, _nobody_ wants you here," Davies said, rolling his eyes at him while putting an arm around Katie.

Realization hit him then and there. While he hated Roger Davies, it was no coincidence as to why the man was here in this house. The two were in a relationship. "Are you two seeing each other?" Oliver asked, feeling deflated. _This_ was something he never would have expected.

"Yes..." Katie answered, a look of confusion crossing her face.

"And you two _live_ together?"

"Well, I would've thought that was obvious," Davies replied. Oliver took notice that he was now fully clothed. And he also realized, judging by how Katie was dressed, and Davies' past attire, that he was interrupting their time together.

"But isn't this your parents' house...?" Oliver asked, feeling more stupid with each question.

She didn't answer this time. She wore a hardened look, as her eyes darkened even more in colour.

"This _is_ your parents' house, is it not?" he asked again.

"My parents passed away five years ago, Oliver."

He didn't know what else to say. That was not something he would have expected either. "I'm sorry. I didn't know..."

"No, you didn't," she said, her tone sounding final. "You couldn't have."

There was a moment of silence before Davies cut in. "Before you go on disrupting our livelihood any more, Wood, I think I could speak for both Katie and I that it would be much appreciated if you left."

Despite having said all the wrongs things today, he wasn't going to give up that quickly. And when did _he_ ever listen to Davies? He'd sooner drop dead than to do so. Not that he wasn't already dead.

"I would like to speak to Katie in private, if you don't mind," Oliver said politely, crossing his arms.

"_No_," Davies said, his arm tightening around her. "I think you've done enough damage here."

He ignored Davies, and turned instead to Katie. "There is something I really would like to tell you, Katie. Honest."

She looked doubtfully at him, and just as Oliver thought that she'd leave him standing there alone, she turned to Davies. He saw her muttering something in his ear. And he saw Davies respond, his face showing more anger, before finally relenting. Davies stepped away from her, making his way back indoors, but not before shoving the finger at Oliver again.

"He really hates me, doesn't he," Oliver commented.

"Well, you hate him just as much, so I should think it's fair."

They both stood in silence.

"_Say something, stupid_!" Fred's voice whispered through his head again. He looked up at Katie, and saw that she was looking back at him expectantly.

"Look Katie, there's no reason to beat around the bush with what I'm about to tell you. I know that I haven't been the nicest person to you – " he heard her sniff pointedly, " – and I know that I deserve every bit of your anger, even though you haven't shown any so far. What I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry for the way I treated you the last time I saw you."

She didn't respond. And when she didn't he ploughed on. "I was being a bloody idiot. I was young, and I was selfish. I didn't realize how great of a thing you and I had going on, and I ruined everything because I thought that our relationship would hinder me from being a great quidditch player. I regret the way I treated you, and I regret our last conversation, and I doubt I can ever begin to feel the hurt I've caused you."

He felt like a robot, as if he was rehearsing for something as he spoke to her. While his apology was truly sincere, he couldn't help but hear how mechanical he sounded.

"Oh," she said, looking at a loss for words. Her arms hung at her sides, and she stared at him intently, as if wondering whether or not to believe him. "Thanks, I guess."

That was _not_ the response he was hoping for.

"I'm sorry Katie."

She nodded at him, pressing her lips together now avoiding his eyes. Oliver watched her. He recalled the way she looked every time she was confused. She always looked utterly adorable, and she looked that way now.

She finally glanced up at him. She shrugged her shoulders as if that was the only response she could think of when hearing his apology. She shuffled, and turned awkwardly towards the door.

"Um..." he started, stepping onto the porch for the first time since she came out. She turned around at the same time, taking a step forwards. They were barely inches from touching, and he felt himself shiver in her presence. She came up to his chin, and, he thought, if he stepped even a bit closer, he could've pulled her into a tight embrace and fold her securely in his arms.

"I don't want to sound too self-involved..." he started again, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He watched her watch him do so. "But... um... will you forgive me?" It came out more bluntly than he intended it to be. Again, he cringed from within, while watching her reaction to his question.

She froze at his words. He saw her take a step back from him, giving him a scrutinizing stare. He held his breath, the only thing he could do in anticipation for her answer.

Oliver heard her exhale, and saw her shoulders droop. He watched as she stepped through the doorway, before turning around. "No. I'm sorry, Oliver, but no. As much as I want to, I don't think I can."

And she _did_ look sorry. He saw her disappear from the door, as she closed it with a final _click_.

He shouldn't be surprised, but that didn't stop him from feeling a little shocked. Eight years. He waited eight years too long to apologize, and all those years had hardened her against him. He walked away from the porch, down the lane, in contemplation of what had just happened.

"What happens _now_, Fred?" he asked dully. He didn't know what else to do but to ask the ghost.

"Well, Wood," Fred chimed in, his translucent form appearing from thin air, "you didn't think it would be _that_ easy, did you?"

Actually, he did. "What _else_ am I supposed to do?"

He heard Fred sigh, as the ghost floated in front of him, stopping him in his aimless wandering. "Do you not remember me telling you that you are here to make amends?"

Oliver's hands flew to his hair in frustration. "_I know that, Fred_! Did you not just watch me humiliate myself as I tried to do so?"

Fred clucked at him. "I didn't say amend, Wood. I said _amends_! With an _'s'_! _Plural_!"

He looked blankly at the ghost. He didn't get it.

"Seriously, you're extra dense today, aren't you? Your task is to get Katie Bell to forgive you!"

"Tried and failed, as proven just a while ago."

"Well, now it's time to make _amends_!" Fred said, smiling toothily.

"Okay, honestly, Fred. I'm not in the mood for guessing games. Could you just tell me what it is you're hinting at, because I don't think I have it in me to figure it out."

"And I suppose all that brain power has been whacked out of you from that bludger blow that sent you crashing to your death." Fred tittered, looking annoyed. "Well, seeing as you _can't_ figure it out, I'll tell you."

_Finally._

"If you want to get Katie to trust you, and to see you as a _decent_ human being again, you're going to have to _convince_ her to."

"And how do I do that when she wants nothing to do with me? And knowing Davies, he probably wouldn't open that door for me again."

"Well, this is where the word _amends_ comes in!" Oliver's brows furrowed as he looked at the ghost questioningly.

"Katie's trust lies with her _friends_. _They_ are the ones she trusts the most."

"Not even _Davies_?"

Fred ignored him for what seemed like the hundredth time that afternoon. "And if you want to be back in her good graces, you'll have to get her friends to convince her to!"

Now everything was starting to make sense. This one simple task of getting Katie to forgive him was _not_ simple at all! Not only was it designed to force him to receive her forgiveness, it was made for him to correct _all_ the wrongs he had done since becoming a supposed jerk. And in order to be forgiven by Katie, he also needed to be forgiven by her friends. And _her_ friends just coincidentally happened to be his _former_ friends as well.

"_Seriously, Fred_?" he asked, exasperated.

Fred grinned back at him. Oliver knew the ghost followed his train of thought. He glared at the ghost, who looked too pleased with himself.

"Aren't I brilliant?" Fred exclaimed, proud as a fucking peacock. "This plan of action _requires_ you to gain the forgiveness of _everybody_! Then you'll definitely ascend to heaven. I mean, nobody can fault you if they all learn to accept you again!"

Oliver said nothing. How many people would that be?

"Well, let's trace it, shall we?" Fred said, clearly enjoying himself. "First of all, who, to your memory, is Katie's best friend?"

"George Weasley," Oliver answered, not too happy with that thought. If he treated Katie with any disrespect, he knew George Weasley would in no way forgive him.

"Right you are, Wood! So you need to get George to forgive you!"

"And how do I do that if he probably hates me too?"

"Well, keep tracing. Who else do you know is connected with both Katie and my dear brother?"

"Um..." He couldn't think. He didn't know. All he could think of was the former quidditch team in Hogwarts. "Angelina?"

"Two for two! _Right you are_! However, if George hates you, I'm quite sure his wife – "

"His _wife_? George and Angelina are _married_? What the hell! How would _you_ know?" Oliver demanded.

"I like to look in now and then on my family. Anyway, your situation is more important than my creeping tendencies. Yes, Angelina is his wife. And knowing Angelina, her allegiance is with both her friend and husband."

"Okay, so..." Oliver waved his hands in the air, urging Fred on.

"Who is Angelina's best friend?"

"Alicia Spinnet?" Oliver guessed. They were best friends the last time he spoke to them.

"Correct! And luckily for you, Alicia is the softest one of the bunch, so you can start there!"

"I suppose I can," Oliver answered grudgingly.

He looked behind him and saw Katie's house from a distance. He couldn't help but remember all those times he walked here, down this path, in direction of the cottage. Always eager to see her. Always wanting to be near her. Until he believed himself to be too good for her.

And now everything was about to change. He was about to change. Whether or not for the better, he could only hope that whoever was judging each and every one of his actions would deem him acceptable for heaven.

It was now time to attempt to butter up Alicia Spinnet, wherever the hell she happened to be.

* * *

a/n: I KNOW! an update? it's true, it's true.

first of all, my sincere apologies for the tardiness of this story. i know my millions of excuses will not be taken seriously, and i'm too ashamed to give them. but i will say that this chapter was extremely difficult to write. now that school's over officially, i think i'll actually have the time to complete loads of this story for you. so please, enjoy.

as always, leave me a review so i know your opinions, and what you think of the progression of the story. anything is welcome, negative or positive. thanks a lot!

and for those of you who haven't given up on me, i am extremely grateful. i'll try not to let you down! (i made this chapter longer to make up for the lateness, just saying)


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